The Loom shrieked.
Not with sound, but with a pressure which wracked through the very bone of existence. The Temple trembled as in torment, its cloths of immemorial haze draining away to reveal a maelstrom of broken threads battering through the skies like untwining veins.
Kael collapsed onto one knee, cradling his head. Visions burst into him—faces of the forgotten, destinies torn from time, wars that didn't happen yet still marred.
"Elira—" he gasped, voice trembling under the weight of the unraveling.
She was standing beside him, shining.
No—searing.
Her veins shone with argent flame, her hair a fall of water ink, caught between moonlight and shadow. The Loom was reacting to her—no, recognizing her. As if some ancient in its weave recalled her presence, her blood, her bond.
Elira felt out, and the threads fell into place. The storm parted, if but slightly, to show a single way—golden, frayed at the edges, and searing like a dying star.
